Fractions
It was the celebrant’s Host which prodded me past my conventional priestly pieties to a more profound engagement with the Mysteries I was praying. Often nowadays, such Hosts are considerably larger than was the case in the past, but usually they are as even and unblemished as their smaller counterparts. The one over which I spoke the familiar words of consecration during Mass in Cebu, Philippines was different. It had a home made quality, unevenness in the purity of colour and thickness which declared it to of the place rather than a wafer which could have been shipped in from anywhere. The imperfections demanded my attention.
At the Lamb of God, this large host had to be broken into many pieces and I found myself performing the task with unusual deliberateness. I associated each break with a particular image from my visit to this beautiful country. I broke it for the two boys wading through a fetid stream for plastic bottles worth barely a cent each. I broke it for squatters celebrating the Santo Nino fiesta, forgetting for a time the precariousness of their existence. I broke it for the very camp ex-seminarian forced by economic realties to work for the institution which would not ordain him. (I broke it also for the priest who found solace from his own troubles by making fun of him). I broke it for an elderly English travelling companion who made no bones about his own reasons for coming to the Philippines, and his satisfaction with “the girl” (she had no name apparently) who was on call during his quarterly visits. I broke it for the lector wearing on her head what could only be described as a doily. It declared her authority in the liturgy but also defined her limits; the host I was breaking could only be distributed by men. I broke it for the Shopping Mall owners who piously have the Angelus announced at Noon, and then pump out jingles for the rest of the time persuading people to want what they don’t need. I broke also for myself, that I might be able to take the log from my own eye, after two weeks of encouraging my brother priests to take the mote out of theirs. The fraction over, I took these blessed and broken pieces of the Son of God and distributed them to the faithful. The giving away of these broken pieces of the Christ’s Body gave me a sense that in Him, something of these glaring anomalies might be resolved, even if they seemed insoluble to a human way of thinking.
It was easy to get angry at poverty and injustice in the Philippines because it was exotic and its forms were unfamiliar. I understand too little and my visit was too short to be able to explain away the incongruities that I encountered there. Back “home”, the same issues are played out along more predictable lines and high-minded indignation seems an indulgence rather than a useful response. If I lived there, I expect I would develop“gave at the office” protectiveness, and greater familiarity would make the injustices seem less glaring. I am not convinced that such protection is useful. We can’t go around being disconcerted by painful reality all the time but if it spurs us on to serve the poor, then….
I don’t think they realised it, but my warm hearted hosts filled my bags with more than dried mango’s when they deposited me at Manila Airport yesterday. They challenged me to look again at poverty closer to home and see it with fresh eyes. My time in the Philippines will be long remembered, but perhaps with most intensity at the Breaking of Bread.